


What is it to be a Woman?

by Domjiji (HeviMetal)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Other, Personal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeviMetal/pseuds/Domjiji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is a little drabble on Mary's thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What is it to be a Woman?

The woman standing against the wooden walls of the bar had skin so fair she looked delicate. Light hair blowing in to the warm Caribbean breeze stuck to her lips after she licks them. **She must be available**. Taking a sip from her tankard, liquid ran down a powdered chin to her breasts as she playfully smothered them. **She has to be...** Men gawk at her from every direction; she oozes sexuality and moans in laughter to her display. **_Definitely_ available** with the possibility of no children. When was the last time I could be a woman? When was the last time I could bounce my breasts playfully and attract the attention of dogs? Looking back in retrospect, I can recall the time I was able to be a woman. Before, my worries were whether my dress was perfect enough for my late husband to lift, if eating together could happen in peace, my arms long enough to wrap around his sleeping back, or bathing together feeling exceptionally clean. Now getting drunk without having issues of piloting a ship, dealing with grown children ordering them around never accepting laziness, and keeping up appearances are daily skills.

My skin is no longer smooth; marred with scars from the sea and war, forever damaged by the sun forever losing a maiden glow, a man must be daft or drunk to notice. Reales are traded for sails and gunpowder, instead of the latest skin creams made of bat shit to put on my face (unless blood counts--which is free) to attain beauty. It can be assumed I am jealous of those hedonistic women that money can buy, never rejecting an opportunity for fun and folly. The most recent account I had the pleasure of moaning about was by a no-nothing man plunging his dagger in my waist forcing me to stay in bed ill for a week. Interesting enough though, it worked out well--in fact grateful. First mate _**TOM**_ came for a visit and his bloody aunt _**FLOW**_ draining my patience quickly having me thirst for the salty air.

Portraying as a man is not what I had expected as a child, after puberty, and mostly after marriage. As soon as my husband was murdered, I was forced into hiding, changing my name to James instead of Mark, and started living my life as a man again resumed years later--up till now. Yelling at the top of my lungs, walking like I have a third leg, not at all what I anticipated to be in again. My life is consumed with taking care of my crew and what missions my brotherhood needs of me if availability permits. And the rare moments when I do get privacy, it is in the sanctity of a bush, but sadly, that too has a short life once an enemy nears and I cannot ignore the danger whilst grabbing my britches. When did my life become such a tragedy? I can't even think about necessities like sleep, my men and my cause are my biscuits and grog. My purpose is to work in the darkness to serve the light; my own creed to serve man's justices and believe in them when others don't.

Normal social interactions with women are as abundant as showering, maybe few times a year (not including flirtatious actions) but otherwise rare. I have more women flirting and throwing themselves on me than I prefer thinking what's between my legs can do them a good service. Followed with jealous old men making nasty comments, such as the young pirate man stole his woman, one could see how being **James Kidd** gives reason for his attitude.. I do recall there was once a sailor on one of my mate's ship that fancied me as I am. But quickly I told him the truth of my sex to which he replied "deep down inside we're all lasses".  Even a quartermaster of a different crew and ethnic tried to hold a conversation with me in an attempt to communicate, questioning why I am the way I am to which I could not reply without sounding like his bitch captain and kept silent after saying " _nothin' is true, everythin' is permitted mate_ ". Our chat became mute and once he spoke, he tried going a more masculine approach, the topic of how long had it been since I slept with a wench. It was my cue to leave five seconds after giving a good mean look at how ridiculous it was. This is the reality of being a man among men, sweaty balls deep.

What exactly is it to be a woman? It has been so long I have almost forgotten what it is like to be feminine. To act soft and feel spoiled, giggle at dirty nonsense... I see men I find attractive and would love to ravage their body, but I can't afford to reveal my true self due to trust, the mission, and fear. A fear that I may not be accepted for who I really am. Fear that I will be denied by the man that currently has my heart unbeknownst to him. My emotions are consistently fighting, I have to always lie and find excuses for everything...

At the end of the day, when I go to my favorite tavern, beat from screaming, lying, and working, I can always depend on enjoying a refreshing beverage of the Caribbean. And seeing the stupid Welsh Captain of the Jackdaw unenthusiastically (sometimes clumsily) walk up the stairs reciting "Ahoy Kidd" with a smile in my direction, maybe I can lie a little longer and persevere through these endless thoughts--because I know out of everyone in the world, that smile is meant for me.

* * *

I think this is something we can slightly relate to in some way.

-Domjiji


End file.
